


The Dislocated Room

by Writerforthem



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Richard Siken, M/M, Poetry, Protective Sam Winchester, fever is natures acid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 17:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14549610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writerforthem/pseuds/Writerforthem
Summary: A little after midnight. Empty road. Except for one car. Its sleek black color almost blends in with the surrounding darkness except for the shine of the moon on its hood. The perfect rumbling of its engine sounds loud in the quiet night, letting anything in a few block's radius know of its frantic race. It moves quickly through the dark roads, fast and determined towards the lights of the city in front of it.Its driver's hands grip the wheel, knuckles white, eyes intent on the lights ahead. They're dark in the almost nonexistent light, his eyes, searching though too far away yet to see what he needs. A pitiful sound from the backseat makes his hands grip the wheel tighter and push the gas pedal down more, if possible."Hold on, man. We're almost there. Just hold on." His voice is forced. But the feeling is there. Just for his brother to hear. Otherwise, he'd be too numb to feel anything. "We're almost there."





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Transferring my first baby to this site. I wrote this way back in 2011. One of my first supernatural... what started as a drabble and turned into a full fledged story. The poem integrated by Richard Siken just sparked this whole thing and it's still a work I am most proud of. I'm not sure where the writing style came from, but this little story started my whole dive into the world of Supernatural fan fiction.  
> If you recognize it, that's because it came from fanfiction.net.  
> If you don't... Welcome new readers. I hope you like it. :)

**Part 1**  


_It was night for many miles and then the real stars in the purple sky,_  
_like little boats rowed out too far,_  
_begin to disappear._  
_And there, in the distance, not the promised land,_  
_but a Holiday Inn,_  
_with bougainvillea growing through the chain link by the pool._  
_The door swung wide: twin beds, twin lamps, twin plastic cups_  
_wrapped up in cellophane._  


  


A little after midnight. Empty road. Except for one car. Its sleek black color almost blends in with the surrounding darkness, except for the shine of the moon on its hood. The perfect rumbling of its engine sounds loud in the quiet night, letting anything in a few block's radius know of its frantic race. It moves quickly through the dark roads, fast and determined towards the lights of the city in front of it. 

Its driver's hands grip the wheel, knuckles white, eyes intent on the lights ahead. They're dark in the almost nonexistent light, his eyes, searching though too far away yet to see what he needs. A pitiful sound from the backseat makes his hands grip the wheel tighter and push the gas pedal down more, if possible. 

"Hold on, man. We're almost there. Just hold on." His voice is forced. But the feeling is there. Just for his brother to hear. Otherwise, he'd be too numb to feel anything. "We're almost there."

Getting into the city, the light of the stars fade to nothing compared to the street lamps. The car is more noticeable. It slows down a fraction, not wanting to draw attention. No time for a speeding ticket tonight. But with a still frantic pace, it heads down the main road of the new town. Searching. Within a minute, it finds what it's looking for. It pulls into the parking lot with a small screech.

Jumping out of the car, the driver heaves a slight sigh. Glad at the quick find, he runs to the back of the car to open the trunk. He changes out of his bloody shirt. No time tonight to deal with a call to the cops for his suspicious attire. His brother needs him. Now. An hour ago. Still pulling his shirt down, he runs into the lobby of the Holiday Inn.

A little better than their usual bunking choices, it's the first place he saw and cares nothing about how much it costs. He gets a room, running back out to the car a minute later, key in hand. A key to heaven when a hospital is too far away. Twenty minutes at the least. His brother doesn't have time for that. He's already driven for ten minutes to get here.

He drives to the door down the parking lot, glad it's on the first floor. Though at this point, he could care less if he had to carry his not-so-light brother up a flight of stairs. He'd do it. He needs the room. The car is no place for him to work tonight. The damage is too great. So it's with adrenaline-powered strength that he reaches into the back seat and, as gently as possible, he pulls out his brother. He winces at the groan he causes.

"Sorry. Sorry, bro. I gotchya. It'll be okay. You'll be okay."

God, but his brother is heavy. He walks with small steps and shallow breaths, struggling with the weight but unwilling to change his brother's position from horizontal. There's so much blood. Getting all over his new shirt. Soaking it. Turning his brother vertical would only allow more blood to spill out. He forces himself forward, the hand under the legs of the man in his arms uncurling to push the key into the lock, his shoulder leaning against the door frame for support.

Kicking the door open, he goes inside as it swings wide and stays there. He can't turn on the light yet, barely keeping from dropping his brother on the closest bed. Instead, he drops to his knees, the man in his arms landing perfectly flat on the bed with only the slightest jar. He groans anyway, eyes opening for the first time since the incident.

Wincing, the brother gently pulls his arms out from under him. "Sorry. I'm sorry." He stands. "I'll be right back." And he is within ten seconds, bag in hand, door clicking shut behind him as he goes to his brother.

 _And he says No Henry, let's not do this._  
_Can you see the plot like dotted lines across the room?_  
_Here is the sink to wash away the blood,_  
_here's the whiskey, the ripped-up shirt, the tile of the bathroom floor,_  
_the disk of the drain_  
_punched through with holes._  
_that is not a room._

_____ _

"Sam." His brother speaks his name as a breath.

He bites his lip as he cuts away the already destroyed shirt, heart and stomach both lurching at the blood and tearing on his older brother's chest. "It's okay, Dean. I'm here. It'll be okay." But he's not sure it will. Instead of thinking, he gets the emergency bottle of pain pills, getting water from the sink in a plastic cup from the table to get his almost unresponsive brother to swallow them.

The shirt drops to the ground as he gets the offending material out of his way when he finally gets the pills to go down. He runs to the sink, wetting a towel before returning to his brother with two, using the dry one to soak up as much of the blood as possible before using the wet one to wash away the rest so he can see what all happened. What's killing his brother.

"Henry."

Dean speaks again, grabbing his attention as he cleans. Carefully but quickly, he uncovers Dean's destroyed torso. His stomach churns at everything revealed. It reminds him of the way the Hellhounds ripped him apart. "No, Dean. Sam. Not Henry."

"Don't, Henry. Hurts."

And it's that voice. The voice Dean reverts to whenever he's scared. Like when he had ghost sickness. That voice that tells Sam something isn't right. Though he knows it already tonight. Nothing is right tonight. He thinks hard about the name as he rustles through his bag, pulling out his stitching materials. And the whiskey. "Don't worry, Dean. It won't hurt for long."

 _The Henry that is not a Henry, the Henry with a needle and thread,_  
_hovering over the hollow boy passed out_  
_on the universal bedspread._  
_Here he is again, being sewn up._  
_So now we have come to a great battlefield, the warmth of the fire,_  
_the fire still burning,_  
_the heat escaping like a broken promise, the horizon widened like an open road._

_____ _

He gets to work, hoping the pain pills are working. The already sure-to-be-tender skin would hurt a million times more when the needle goes through if they aren't. His brother twitches slightly when the needle enters the skin, showing the pills are only just starting to take effect. "I'm sorry, Dean," he says again as he starts, one tear making it's way down his face when he tries to blink them away. He feels young again. So unsure about what he's doing.

He's sewing his brother up again. On a greater scale than ever before. And as he sews, the name brings back a story. One Dean told him of when he was three years old when Sam was hurt and needed Dean to talk as a distraction. How a friend of dad's, Henry, had been babysitting Dean while their parents were out. Before Sam was born. They had went to the park. And Dean had fallen from the jungle jim, breaking his leg.

Henry had helped him. Took him to the hospital, comforting him the whole way. And he had been there the whole time they put the bone back into place and put the cast on. It was Dean's first major injury. Before their dad had taught them to be strong. It was the scariest time in his life he can remember before his mom dying. And Henry had meant a lot to Dean before their dad took them away after their mom was killed.

Sam smiles through his burning eyes. He hasn't let any more tears escape. He's Dean's Henry right now. In his brother's hallucinating state, he's his first hero. Before Dad… before anyone. Someone he counted on the most as a child,the mindset he reverts to whenever something isn't right with him.

With one lamp on, he sews. One arm resting gently on the towel to put pressure over the areas of his brother's chest he isn't working on to stop the bleeding. It only half works. But he doesn't dwell on that. Stitching is more important. It will stop the bleeding. He doesn't rush though. He can't. The criss-crossing of the slashes across Dean's chest are a complicated puzzle. He refuses the need to empty his stomach that keeps returning.

He knows his brother is fighting a battle with his failing body. The blood loss is taking its toll. "Stay with me, Dean. Don't give in." His voice shakes. His hands are steady. He sews. For a long time. "Don't you dare take the easy way out, man. Don't you dare leave me. I know it'll be tempting. To take the painless road. But I need you, man. Stay with me."

Dean's eyes flicker. "Sam."

 _Henry's putting his hands all over him to keep him in the room,_  
_but the words keep rolling over the sleeper's lips:_  
_He won't kiss me. He won't kiss me._  
_But talking about God now, not boys._

He feels the weight on his chest. Keeps him grounded. Keeps him in his immediate surroundings. In the room. In the dim light. The pain. And then no pain. Just a sensation. Pulling. And the weight. Always the weight. And Sam. Sam is the weight. A pleasant weight. Telling him he's home. Wherever he is. He's with Sam. That's all that matters. The weight reminds him he's with Sam. His awareness fades.

Then there is no room. There is Henry. Telling him to stay put. Not leave. Stay in the room. To not follow the open road. He instructs him like he did before. When his leg was broke. Tells him to push through the pain. Because when the pain leaves, he'll be better. God will kiss the pain away. Henry believed in God. He always told him he did. Said it was the only way he could explain healing. And life. Said his wife told him God kissed away the pain. Made it go away. Even when sometimes it took longer than we'd like. God kisses it away.

Then he hears his brother. Hears his shaking voice through the haze. "Don't you dare take the easy way out, man. Don't you dare leave me. I know it'll be tempting. To take the painless road. But I need you, man. Stay with me."

So he tries. Really hard. Because Sam is telling him to stay in the room too. His weight is grounding him. Tells him to not follow the open road he can see. He sees it's painless, like Sam said, but he doesn't take it. Because his little brother needs him. Though not so little anymore, he manages to think. He wants him to stay. So instead of following the road, he gives in to the darkness pulling him into a welcoming embrace. Staying put like Sam said.

"He won't kiss me," he says to himself aloud as the darkness takes him.

He doesn't know who he's talking about.

 _This is the part where, this is the part where, this is the part where you_  
_wake up in your clothes again,_  
_this is the part where you're trying to stay inside the building._  
_Stay in the room for now, he says. Stay in the room for now._  
_This is the place, you say to yourself,_  
_this is the place where everything starts to begin,_  
_the wounds reveal a thicker skin and suddenly there is no floor._

Eyes open. Close. Open again. Look around as he pulls out of sleep. He's aware again. Knows where he is. In a hotel. Sam. Where's Sam? The need to find Sam overwhelms him. He tries to sit up, but a fire spreads through him. Makes his breath whoosh out with it. A grunt escapes. He struggles to keep consciousness. He takes inventory on all the sensations. Clean pants. No shirt. He has an idea why. The fire in his chest tells him why.

The door clicks open as he's trying to sit up again, doing his best to ignore the pain. He can't.

"Hey, hey, hey. Dean."

Sam is there. It's okay now. He lets himself drop. "Sam."

"I'm here, Dean. It's okay. Just stay there. Don't try to move. Just stay there."

Sam is telling him to stay again. So he does. He doesn't move. But then he's dizzy. His focus leaves. He tries to stay. Tries to stay awake. He feels Sam's hand on his arm, a fire burning at its place. A good fire this time. He hears his voice. He tries to pay attention to the words. Uses his remaining strength to do so.

"You gotta lay still, man. There's still a bullet in your shoulder. It can't move. We have to get to Bobby's. He'll get it out for us. I can't do it. And the police from that town are keeping their eye on the surrounding hospitals for someone with your injuries. They saw us kill it." Sam's voice shakes. "Can you make it, Dean? Can you hold on?"

He blinks, crawling out of the blackness surrounding him. Wants to answer Sam. "Yeah, Sammy." His voice is slurred. He tries to concentrate harder. "I'll be fine."

"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry."

Sorry? Why is he sorry? His hand searches out Sam's. Finds it. Feels his brother's heat. Pulls strength from it. "No need… to be sorry, Sammy," he gets out with some work.

Feels Sam squeeze his hand. "I'll save you, Dean. I promise. You'll be okay. I won't let you die."

He keeps Sam's hand gripped in his. Doesn't want to let go. "Won't leave. Can't." He believes that. With the heat of his brother's hand in his, he knows there's nowhere he'd rather be. And something is different. Even death won't keep him away. He feels it. Knows something changed. Right now. It's the beginning of something.

Then he's falling. The bed is gone. The floor is gone. The blackness under and around him takes him. He lets it.

 _Meanwhile,_  
_there is something underneath the building that is trying very hard_  
_to get your attention._  
_Let's say you're dreaming about a devil with red skin and black horns,_  
_a man with almond eyes and a zipper that runs the length_  
_of his spine._  
_A standard devil._  
_The one from the Underwood Ham label._  
_A man who is standing, cloven-hoofed, in the middle of a Howard_  
_Johnson's, pointing at you with a glass of milk,_  
_saying Drink this,_  
_before I break your bones._

He's not falling anymore. Is he under the hotel? No. He didn't really fall. He let the blackness take him. There's a voice. It knows his name. The voice makes him shiver. It's familiar. It's Alistair. But it's not Alistair. Because the owner of the voice comes into view. It's a devil. Red like a cartoon devil. And it grins at him. With Alistair's grin. But it's not Alistair.

He stands over him, looking down with that Alistair grin. "Hello, Dean. Nice to see you again."

And he's burning. Feels heat move over his skin. Extreme heat. But he can still concentrate on the Alistair that's not, recognizing the voice that followed him through all of his different bodies. "Go… to Hell," he manages to spit.

Alistair laughs. "I wouldn't talk like that if I were you, Dean. You won't be able to get anywhere fast." He leans over him. "You're mine now," he almost sings.

He wants to cry out to Sam. But won't. Not with Alistair right there. But then there's a searing pain, tears welling in his eyes at the fire that courses through his chest. He groans, his voice almost lodged in his throat. He allows a breath through the pain. "Sam."

Alistair stands above him, knife handle in his hand as he grins. "Not so tough now, are you Dean?" He pulls the knife from Dean's chest.

Dean grunts, on the verge of crying out. He grits his teeth against the pain. But then there's one more wave of fire over him and he wants out. This Alistair isn't real. He knows it. He's dreaming.

 _You pinch yourself but you're still sleeping. You pinch yourself but_  
_you're still sleeping,_  
_pinch yourself, you pinch yourself, you pinch . . ._  
_but the man says take one, take it, here_  
_is the first escape: pills, valves, a new velocity, and the voices_  
_are getting louder._  
_You can see the grill, the pots and pans,_  
_the apple pies with their big sliced grins,_  
_and you can see the shadow that the man is throwing across the linoleum,_  
_how it resembles a boat, how it crosses the tiles just so,_  
_the masts of his arms rasping against the windows._

He tries to wake up. Tries to force himself to wake up. He tries everything as Alistair just stands over him, grinning. Laughing. He digs his nails into his palms. Moves in ways that will hurt his chest. He doesn't wake up. He's not waking up. With one more stab from Alistair, his eyes squeeze shut and he lets out a choked sound.

Then his eyes open. Things are different. He's not in the dark Hell with the not Alistair. He's back on a bed. The room has low light. But it's a different room. There are different sounds. Different smells. But one is familiar. It makes him realize he's wearing a hoodie that isn't his. Sam's. But this makes him feel safe. He takes a deep breath with his nose buried in his shoulder.

The breath makes his chest hurt. It gets caught in his throat as he groans from the pain. He hears a sound. Sheets rustling. Then his brother's voice.

"Dean?" Sleep evident in his deep tone. Gravely after just waking up. "You okay man?"

His brother's voice gives him something it always gives him when he's weak. Comfort. And something else he doesn't have the awareness to place. "Hurts," he manages to breathe.

"We still have pain pills. You can take one." There's rustling. Then he's standing next to the bed. Freakin' tall guy. "Here. Take it."

He opens his mouth, letting Sam baby him for once and give it too him. Too weak to lift his arm.

Sam props his head up, holding it while touching a cup to his lips. "Here. Get a drink. There ya go."

He does, loving his brother more than anything in the world while the cool liquid moves down his throat. When Sam sets his head back down, he sighs. "Thanks, Sammy." His eyes fall closed again.

Now he's somewhere else again. Outside. Next to the impala. Hears the radio. Wipes dirt off the front grill. The radio gets louder. Then he's in a kitchen. Bobby's kitchen. Making Sam breakfast at the age of twelve.

His surroundings change. He's in a hotel again. With Sam. At fifteen, sharing one of their apple pies. But then the pies are grinning at him. Talking to him. The voices… no… the radio gets louder. He tries to shut them out.

The sound stops. He opens his eyes. It's dark again. A man is standing over him. His shadow moves across the floor and up the wall like it's alive. Like it's just floating over the ground. Up to the windows where the wind is still heard.

 _The bell rings, the dog growls,_  
_and then the wind picking up, and the light falling, and his mouth_  
_flickering, and the dog_  
_howling, and the window closing tight against the dirty rain._  
_And he's pointing at you with a glass of milk_  
_as if he's trying to tell you that there is_  
_some sort of shining star now buried deep inside you and he has to_  
_dig it out with a knife._

A sound pulls his attention. A car alarm. A bell. A ringing cell phone maybe? A dog growls nearby. It sends shivers down his spine. The wind is getting louder. The light goes away. The sun going down. Falling. Sam is standing over him. He's talking but he can't understand him. Can't wake up enough. Just hears the smooth bass of his voice, continuous sound.

The dog howls outside. He closes his eyes, trying not to shudder at the sound. Hellhounds. That's what it reminds him of.

"Don't worry, Dean. Dog, not hellhound."

He said that out loud?

Sam closes the window. "Bobby called. He's ready for us."

It's raining. "Ready for us?" His consciousness fades around the edges.

"I had to stop here and take care of your fever. It's not going down, Dean. We have to travel with it."

He frowns. Sam's voice is shaking again. Sam's upset. Sam shouldn't be upset. "Fever?"

"…bullet… shoulder… damage… digging… with a knife… usual."

He's losing consciousness fast. Gathers something about a bullet in his shoulder. Digging it out with a knife. He winces internally. He hates doing that.

 _Here is the hallway and here are the doors and here is the fear of the_  
_other thing, the relentless thing,_  
_your body drowning in gravity, but you are fighting it,_  
_and you want some help, and then the help arrives but_  
_it isn't helpful at all._

He's in Bobby's house now. The upstairs hallway. He looks down the line of doors. Goes to the extra bedroom Sam always shared with him when they were little. But he stops without opening the door. A sudden fear grips him. Making no sense. An unexplainable, ridiculous fear. But then he opens the door anyway, Dean Winchester never being one to run away.

He sees Sam on the bed. Sleeping. Looking like he always does when he's asleep. Like a child. None of the daily weight on his shoulders. Beautiful. And then he's drowning, emotions and thoughts overwhelming him in his startled moment by the word. That one word bringing a wave of panic. A word he's thought about his brother a few times. But never like this.

He tries to hold himself up. But he's falling. Can't stand. Legs giving out. And he's muttering a string of curses. His eyes lock back on his brother. He's drowning. Can't breathe. Needs help.

As if he suddenly knows Dean is suffering, Sam wakes up. He looks over to his brother, eyebrows drawing in with worry. "Dean? What's wrong?"

His eyes lock onto Sam's panicking. What if Sam can tell? What if Sam hates him for it?

"Hey. Dean." Sam kneels next to him. Tries to calm him down. Tries to help. "What's wrong, Dean? It's okay. It's okay, Dean. Breathe."

Sam's hands are on him. One on his chest, the other on his back. He's so close. Breathing down his neck as he tries to calm him. Makes him shiver. Makes him panic. Makes him wonder what's wrong with him.

He's not helpful at all.


	2. Part 2

**Part Two**

 

 _This is the meanwhile, the in-between,_  
_the waiting that happens in the space between_  
_one note and the next, the place where you confuse_  
_his hands with the room,_  
_the dog with the man,_  
_the blood with the ripped-up sky._  
_Henry, he's saying. Who is it that's talking?_

He wakes up again. Tries to figure out what he’s missed between the moments of consciousness. Well… semi-consciousness. Even now, he’s only half aware. Confused. Can’t figure out what’s going on. Whose hands are on him. Not Sam’s. What room he’s in. If it’s the same one from before or not. The dog’s growling again. Or is it a man’s voice? Grumbling?  
  
He keeps his eyes closed. Tries to just become more aware before trying something harder. Tries to hear more sounds. Finally finds Sam’s voice. It gives him peace. He’s safe. It gives him the strength to open his eyes. He’s being moved. Hands all over him. Carrying him. He’s just starting to feel it over the heat on his skin.  
  
His head is on Sam’s chest. There’s blood in the sky. No… on his shirt. His blue shirt. One of his favorites, he thinks briefly. He hears the gravelly voice again. Can’t place it though it’s right at the edge of his mind. Wants to know. Make sure Sammy is okay. But his conscious and confused thoughts are mixing together. “Henry,” is the name that comes out, “who is that talking?”  
  
“It’s Bobby, Dean.” The reply is said so very quietly. “Bobby came to help.”  
  
Help? Sammy can’t take care of him by himself? What’s wrong? Could the blood on his shirt have anything to do with this? “Sammy?” He gets the right name this time. “You okay?” He shivers. It’s cold. He’s being set down. Doesn’t know where.  
  
“I’m fine, Dean,” the quiet voice answers. That’s how Dean knows he’s not fine. There’s something off. But Bobby’s here to help now. He trusts Bobby.  
  
“Okay,” he sighs. He lets the exhaustion overtake him to escape the unsettling mix of the heat below his skin meeting the cold in the air.

 _I thought I heard the clink of ice to teeth._  
_I thought I heard the clink of teeth to glass._  
_The dog, his bowl, his sloppy grin,_  
_the number of wounds, the exact sequence,_  
_the words now lurching in his mouth and drifting,_  
_the words now drifting away._

He hears things. Familiar sounds. Sounds of Bobby’s. Telling of pouring a drink. Clinking of glass. But he’s still out of it. He can tell. Mostly by the weird things he’s seeing. The sight of a fictitious werewolf standing in front of him. An actual huge dog. The size of a hellhound, but more human details. It’s grinning at him, drool dripping from its fangs as it stalks towards him.  
  
He doesn’t have time to blink before it leaps. He jumps in front of Sam, the creature tackling him to the ground. Its claws are already in his chest, raking down it. He cries out as he feels the warmth of blood spreading. Feels every wound in the exact sequence as the first time. From the real werewolf. The number is impossible to tell.  
  
There’s a gunshot. He feels another stab of pain above the others. In his shoulder. He cries out one more time. Then the creature is falling. Lands on him. He has trouble breathing. “Sam,” he chokes out. “Little help?” The werewolf is the real one now. More human than dog. But he knows he’s still dreaming. This already happened.  
  
Then Sam is there next to him. The creature is practically flung off of him. “I’m here, Dean. I’m here.” His hands go to his face. “How you doing?”  
  
He lets his eyes close. “Hurts.” He feels his mind start fading from the blood loss. “A lot.”  
  
Sam takes off his jacket, rolling it up and pressing it to his chest. When Dean lets out a choked wine, he winces. “Sorry Dean.” The first of many apologies to come. “I know it hurts.”  
  
He opens his eyes a little, looking up into Sam’s face. “S’okay Sam.” His eyes lock onto his brother’s. “It’ll be okay.” He grimaces as he’s moved. Choked sounds grate through his throat at lurching intervals.  
  
“It’s okay, Dean. It’ll be okay. I’ll fix you up.”  
  
Sam is still talking as the blood loss finally takes him. The words drift away.

 _He puts his hands, he's putting his hands,_  
_he puts his hands all over you to keep you in the room,_  
_but here is the Angel of Cornflakes and Milk,_  
_and here is the Angel of Open Wounds,_  
_and here is the Angel of Wash You Clean,_  
_the Angel of Taking It All Away._

He’s aware yet again as someone is sitting him up, making him wince at the pain in his chest. Someone’s sitting behind him. Sam, he recognizes as he’s leaned back against a ridiculously muscled chest, supported against him, ridiculously long legs on either side. A ridiculous heat surrounds him. He opens his eyes, awareness flooding in as indignation surges through him. “Why am I in your lap?” his voice growls.  
  
Sam chuckles softly behind him. The first good sound from his brother he’s heard in… however long it’s been since the face-off with the werewolf. He takes comfort in the warm sound. “Relax tough guy. You need to be sitting up to eat. Do you think you can eat something? Fever’s gone down thanks to Bobby. You haven’t eaten in days. Let me feed you?” The last part in his rambling is a soft question.  
  
He lets his head rest back on his brother’s shoulder. An interesting and possibly compromising position if anyone else was around. But no one is. And he has the sense to admit he wouldn’t be able to sit up otherwise. “Breathe a word of this to anyone and I’ll kill you.”  
  
“Says the guy who jumped in front of me and took the werewolf.” His brother’s voice is sharp. Unintentionally, he guesses by the way the body tenses behind him after.  
  
“Sorry,” he murmurs. "Didn't mean to scare you like this."  
  
His brother doesn’t answer. Only holds up a bowl. “Bobby only has cornflakes. He went out to get more food. I figured this was a start.”  
  
“Okay,” he offers softly. And then he does something he never thought he’d let his little… well… younger brother do. He lets Sam feed him. A bowl of cornflakes cereal, complete with milk. He realizes he was starving.  
  
“One bowl is enough, I think,” Sam says softly when it’s gone. “I don’t know what I’m doing, really.” His voice is hesitant.  
  
“I’ll be fine, Sam.”  
  
“C’mon. We need to change the bandages.” Sam carefully gets out from behind him, leaning him down gently to rest against the armrest of the couch. “You okay?”  
  
He can’t believe how coherent he is right now. “Yeah.”  
  
Sam nods, unbuttoning the shirt he had put on Dean when transferring him to Bobby’s. He gently gets it off his older brother’s arms, dropping it on the floor before carefully removing the bandages.  
  
He grimaces against the sting. But this is something he’s felt before. Familiar. He watches as Sam’s long, gentle fingers remove bandage after bandage, frowning at the criss-crossing lines on his chest. It looks bad.  
  
Sam sees his frown. “It was pretty bad,” he almost breathes. His puppy dog eyes look up at his brother. “I did what I could, Dean. It was…” his breath shudders, “it was a puzzle.”  
  
He puts his hand to Sam’s arm. Locks eyes with him. “It’s okay, Sammy.”  
  
Sam nods at him, blinking away the wetness from his eyes before returning to his work. Then looks up again. “I know this is a stretch… but… you need to get clean.”  
  
He turns to look at the wall. Doesn’t answer for a while. He appreciates Sam’s patience. He eventually answers, “I’m sure you’ve already done it.” He doesn’t look away from the wall.  
  
“Well… you don’t exactly stop bodily functions just because you’ve passed out.”  
  
He grits his teeth.  
  
“Dean.” Sam’s voice is gentle. “You’ve taken care of me before. There’s no difference. Besides, this time I can just get the top half of you. And maybe help you to the bathroom.”  
  
He lets his eyes close. Takes a deep breath. Nods once. He lets Sam slowly help him stand, gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest when he moves. He only lets out a single groan. Forces Sam to ignore it. He makes it to the bathroom, forcing his brother out. But as soon as he hears the toilet flush Sam’s back, supporting him as he leads him out and back to the couch.  
  
Sam leaves and comes back with a wet rag, giving his brother a questioning look. Puppy eyes and all. When he gets a nod, he smiles brightly, sitting on the edge of the couch and slowly moving the warm rag over his brother’s face, neck, one arm, the second arm. Then he moves to his chest, carefully rubbing around the stitches. The whole while, Sam’s touch is incredibly gentle.  
  
He can’t help but relax under his brother’s administrations. He can always count on Sam to take it all away.

 _We have not been given all the words necessary._  
_We have not been given anything at all._  
_We've been driving all night._  
_We've been driving a long time._  
_We don't want to stop. We can't stop._

He thinks as Sam washes him. Even though they’re close, he’s not stupid to think they’ve ever had great communication. He and Sam have gotten into some nasty fights. Physical and not. And they’ve had some pretty good talks, he’s actually proud to admit. But they’ve never had any of the words necessary to tell each other just how much they care about the other. Sure, they’ve touched on it. But never made sure the other knows. He’s thinking maybe they should. After this close call, it sounds nice.  
  
He doesn’t have much. Hasn’t been given much throughout his life. The only constants have been the Impala, Sam, and hunting. Not counting them, the world hasn’t given him anything at all. Even though he doesn’t ask for very much. Even Sam had most of what he wanted taken away. Now he’s back to three things too. Dean, the Impala, and hunting. He wants to keep Sam with him. Wants him to know he cares.  
  
He’s become content with their lives to a point. From one state to another. They’ve been driving. All day. All night. All week, month, year. A long time. They just keep driving. He doesn’t want to stop. He has Sam with him. Without hunting, he and Sam wouldn’t be together. He also can’t stop. It’s all he knows. All he really feels that he can do. He can’t let it go. 

_He's standing over you._  
_His hands are open or his hands are fists._  
_It's night. It's noon. He's driving._  
_It's happening all over again._  
_It isn't happening. It's love or it isn't. It isn't over._  
_You're in a car. You're in the weeds again. You're on a bumpy road_  
_and there are criminals everywhere,_  
_longing for danger._

He starts to fall asleep as his brother finishes. His eyes close as Sam stands. He lets his fatigue take him. Finds his thoughts continuing into his dreams. Sam always seems to be standing over him. The tall freak. Six foot four of little brother always seems to be the one looking down. And he always seems to be looking up.  
  
Once before, when Sam was brainwashed by a ghost in a psychiatric ward, Sam had stood over him as he had lied on the ground looking up. Had his hands in fists, a gun in one, ready to shoot him. Good thing he gave him the empty gun. But so many other times, he had looked up to his younger brother’s hand open and offered to him. To pull him to his feet. Help him up.  
  
There have been so many times when they were equals. He remembers night drives. Midday drives. Sam driving. A privilege he only allows his brother. Trusting him with his baby. And it happens again and again. And then it wasn’t happening. Once when he thought his brother was leaving him again. He wanted to tell his brother he loved him. But what brother ever says that? So he didn’t. But it wasn’t over. Sam came back. Saved him even.  
  
And they had driven away together again. Hunting again. Many hunts. In the woods. The weeds, mud, and bugs. On the highways to the bumpy, dirt roads. After creatures and criminals when they stumble upon the occasional crazy human. They look for danger. They’re crazy, but if they don’t do it who will? There are very few hunters in the world.

 _Open the door and the light falls in._  
_Open your mouth and it falls right out again._  
_He's on top of you. He's next to you, right next to you in fact._  
_He has the softest skin wrapped entirely around him._

He wakes up again. Getting tired of the tiny glimpses of reality in between the overwhelming hours, or what seems like hours, of dreams and nightmares. He sees it’s dark. His biological clock is so screwed up. He’s in Bobby’s spare bedroom. He closes his eyes, sighing when it drags back one of the dreams. With Sam in the bed. But then something makes a sound.  
  
The door opens, a sliver of light glowing on the floor. It closes, and Sam walks over to the bed. “There room for me?” he asks when he sees he’s awake.  
  
He wants to say no. Because they’re almost in their thirties. A little too old to want to share a bed with your brother. But really… he does want to. Just for tonight. Because maybe that way he won’t have nightmares. Maybe he can use the excuse of being hurt to be weak for once. To need his little brother.  
  
And really, with the hopeful look on Sam’s face right now, maybe the little brother wants it too. To keep an eye on him. Make sure he’s okay. And it’s not like they haven’t had to before. When the rooms with two twin beds were full. Sure they got suggestive looks, but they didn’t have a choice. Or nights where wherever they were staying didn’t have heat, they shared to keep each other warm.  
  
He finds himself saying, “There’s always room, Sammy.”  
  
The smile Sam lets loose gives its own sliver of light from the brightness of his teeth. Like the way the light fell in from the door. It’s white though, from the moonlight shining through the window. In a second, he’s climbing over him to the empty side of the bed so he doesn’t have to move.  
  
He’s a little shocked when Sam’s arm rests gently on his stomach, just under where the stitches start. But he doesn’t say anything. Just closes his eyes with his brother laying right next to him. Even smiles when in a few minutes, soft snores sound in his ear. It isn’t long before Sam scoots even closer, cuddling him. He rolls his eyes affectionately. Sam always has like physical comfort. Cuddled to the point of ridiculousness when they were little.  
  
He lets his eyes fall closed again, feeling his brother’s warm, soft skin against him. There’s so much of him. He lets himself curl into the warm embrace, hoping the nightmares will stay away. Uses his giant of a teddy bear brother to keep the dreams at bay. Lets weakness move in, knowing Sam is there.

 _It isn't him._  
_It isn't you._  
_You're falling now._  
_You're swimming._  
_This is not harmless._  
_You are not breathing._  
_You're climbing out of the chlorinated pool again._  
_Is there an acceptable result?_  
_Do we mean something when we talk?_  
_Is it enough that we are shuddering from the sound?_

There’s a gasping sound. It isn’t Sam. It’s not him. Or is it? He’s falling now. Again. But not through the bed or floor. Just falling. Now swimming. Struggling. Fighting against the current trying to pull him under. This is bad. Dangerous. He stops breathing. Can’t breathe. Still struggling. Swimming. Fighting to get out. Chlorine burns his throat. Chokes him. Keeps him from breathing.  
  
But then he makes it. Breathes again as he pulls himself out of the water. But there is no water. Just choking. The command to not breathe. And he wonders… is there ever going to be an end to this? An acceptable end where it’ll all go away? Does it mean anything when we ask for an end? Do we ever get the result we want? Is it enough that we shudder at the sound of our own pleading?  
  
That’s what he does now. Asks. Pleads. To any and every god that could help him. He knows he’s on the verge of death. And he has a good chance of doing so soon. But he doesn’t want to die. To hurt Sam like that for the second time. To leave Sam again. Be alone. Without his little brother. Heaven or Hell, he doesn’t care. It’ll be the same thing if he has to leave without Sam again. 

_Left hand raising the fork to the mouth,_  
_feeling the meat slide down your throat, thinking_  
_My throat. Mine. Everything in this cone of light is mine._  
_The ashtray and the broken lamp,_  
_the filthy orange curtains and his ruined shirt._

In a split second he remembers a scene. A day not long before he was dragged to Hell. A few weeks maybe. In a motel room just outside Ohio. Eating his dinner-remarkably well with his left hand because his right was still hurting from the night’s hunt-while Sam slept. His mind was in dark places while he was virtually by himself. Eyes moving around the room.  
  
He had thought, mine. Everything here is mine. My body. My belongings. This motel room. Mine for the night. The paint peeling from the walls. The unused ashtray to the broken lamp. The horrible orange curtains. Sam’s ruined shirt on the floor. He blinks at that thought, eyes moving to the other bed. He thought, Sam. Sam is mine. My brother. My partner in crime. My walking fact book. My six foot four giant.  
  
He had frowned. In a few weeks he’d be Hell’s. And his life… his Sam would be left up here. It wouldn’t be his anymore. He’d abandon it. Because of a stupid deal. His eyes rested on Sam’s sleeping form again. No. Not stupid deal. A desperate one. But now he’s going to lose Sam anyway.  
  
He left Sam a few weeks after that. Lost him to Ruby he found out when he came back. He will not make the same mistake twice. He will not leave his brother again.

 _I've been in your body, baby, and it was paradise._  
_I've been in your body and it was a carnival ride._  
_You're inside you._  
_He's inside you._  
_He's between the two of you._  
_You're the residue._  
_Gold bodies in a red red room._

In the next second he’s reminded of Hell. Alistair is back. Standing over him again. Eyes as black as night. Taunting him. Reminding him of how for thirty years, he had cut into him. Got deep inside him.  
  
“You were hell’s most wanted, Dean. And I was the one who got to cut into you. It was a paradise like you couldn’t imagine.”  
  
“You’re dead,” he chokes out. Desperately hoping his mind works with him on this. “Sam killed you.”  
  
Alistair’s eyes look back into his. “Does it look like I’m dead?”  
  
One second he’s himself. The next, Alistair is deep inside him. Right over his heart as if trying to cut it out. His blade, an extension of his arm, deep inside him. But for some reason, he can’t move. Can’t even make a sound now. As if paralyzed.  
  
Alistair is still there. A barrier between him and Sam. Just like he was when he was in Hell. Always between them. Now he can’t even call out to him like he did in Hell. He can’t move. Can’t make a sound. Stuck. Like he was hung in Hell. Like residue on the end of a fish hook. In the weird light they were all just bodies hanging in a red, red room. Trophies of hell. 

_You're here._  
_You aren't here._  
_You're the room._  
_You're in the room._  
_You aren't in the room._  
_Stay here for just a little longer._

Then it’s like his brain loses all ability to function properly. He’s in Hell. Then he’s not. He’s a room. No, focus Dean. He’s in a room with Sam. Then not in the room. Darkness. Complete nothingness. He hears Henry’s voice. Sam’s voice. Together. Both of them telling him to stay here a little longer.

***

 _They want to stop but they can't stop._  
_They don't know what they're doing._  
_This is not harmless, the how to touch it,_  
_we do not want the screen completely lifted from our eyes,_  
_just lifted long enough to see the holes._

“Bobby, I can’t.”  
  
“We can’t stop, Sam. Your brother is dying. You have to get the bullet out.”  
  
“Why can’t-”  
  
“I already told you. I don’t have the hands for it, boy. But yours are practically surgeon hands. You’ll cause him less discomfort. Won’t irritate the wound so much.”  
  
Sam looks to Bobby, panic and desperation evident in his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Bobby.”  
  
His father figure softens at his voice. So much fear in it. “Sam, you’ve helped Dean more times than anyone. You can do this. Save your brother.”  
  
“What happened to your doctor friend?”  
  
Bobby chuckles humorlessly. “Got found out. In jail. They don't take too kindly to unlicensed surgeons continuing to do surgeries on people.”  
  
Sam deflates.  
  
“Sam, your brother needs you. Now more than ever. You can do this.”  
  
Sam looks to Dean. More settled than before, but still breathing hard. He had been so close to losing him. The bullet has moved. Most likely from all of the moving around he had Dean do yesterday. Sam frowns. This is his fault. He has to fix it. “Knife.” His voice sounds like it’s coming out through a cheese grater.  
  
Bobby hands over the small blade, sharpened to a surgical thin edge. “Just do it quick Sam. Once you cut him open, you gotta do it quick.”  
  
Sam feels bile rise up in his throat. He’s about to cut open his brother’s shoulder. The infected, unhealed wound. He pushes his need to throw up away, putting a gentle hand to is brother’s chest, holding him still. He feels his brother’s heart start moving slower. The tranquilizer is starting to work. Hopefully the numbing medicine is too.  
  
He bites his bottom lip to the point of drawing blood as he carefully slides the blade over the bullet wound. This is against his every instinct. Being the one to cut his brother open. But he feels a slight twinge of thankfulness when the blade makes a perfectly clean cut. It moves almost too easily through the skin. He swallows thickly.  
  
This isn’t harmless. Not like stitching up is. Not like he’s always done. He has to shut himself down. Leaving just enough of a window in his mind open to know what he’s doing. Looking at it objectively. Like a screen to the part of his mind that screams at him for hurting his brother. Just enough of an opening to see the bullet wound.

 _Tired and sore and rubbed the wrong way,_  
_rubbed raw and throbbing in the light._  
_They want to stop but they can't stop._  
_They cannot get the bullet out._  
_Cut me open and the light streams out._  
_Stitch me up and the light keeps streaming out_  
_Between the stitches._

Sam’s tired. Been tired. Hasn’t slept for more than five hours total in the past three days. Was just letting himself relax an hour ago when Dean stopped breathing. Jolted him out of any hope that they could just leave the bullet in. Tore away any other option than getting the offending object out and hoping the infection would go away.  
  
He’s digging now. Eyes focused though tired. Hands moving steadily and objectively. Trying to ignore the fact that this is his brother. Thinking of it as the game Operation, getting the bullet out without pushing it into his heart or deeper into his shoulder where they’d have no choice but to take him to the hospital. His head throbs with a headache, wishing he didn’t need the light overhead to see. He wants to stop. Wants to stop digging in his brother. But he can’t. And still, he can’t get the bullet out. There’s no giving up now though. They’ve already cut him open. The blood is steadily coming out. They need to finish. To stitch him up. At least that way the bleeding would be less between the stitches.

 _He cannot get the bullet out, he thinks, he can't, and then he does._  
_A little piece of grit to build a pearl around._  
_Midnight June. Midnight July._  
_They've been going at it for days now,_  
_getting the bullet out._  
_Digging out the bullet and holding it up to the light, the light._  
_Digging out the bullet and holding it up to the light._

In a split second, he gets a hold of it. Heart leaping in triumph. He gently pulls, maneuvering it out of his brother’s shoulder. After three days. That midnight in June to tonight in July. His face splits into a radiant smile as he finally holds it up to the light.


	3. Part 3

**Part 3**

It’s almost a whole day before Dean stirs. Around ten o’clock the next night. Sam is laying next to him on the bed. Where he’s been since he and Bobby carried him up here. Besides bathroom breaks, Sam hasn’t left. When he was gone, Bobby was keeping watch. They don’t want a repeat of the other night when Dean stopped breathing and not be there to help like Sam was last time.  
  
Every hour, Sam has cleaned the wound and put new bandages on. By the time Dean starts to stir, it’s less red and looks like it’s already started healing. It’s finally healing. After three days of festering and this one more of trying to stick around, the infection is leaving. With the bullet gone, the healing process should be able to finish.  
  
Sam is studying Dean’s face when he wakes up. Starting with a groan to his eyes opening. They blink a few times before his head moves so he can look at Sam. His gaze is tired but focused. It makes Sam smile. Dean manages a small smile back. “Hey.”  
  
Sam smile gets bigger, reaching his eyes. “Hey yourself.”  
  
Dean just lays there a minute, remembering with clarity the unclear things his mind had gathered and conjured. It almost amuses him. It must show on his face.  
  
“What are you thinking?” Sam asks curiously.  
  
Dean looks to him. “That I think I know what an acid trip might feel like now.”  
  
Sam chuckles, relief coursing through him. This is Dean. Even when he had woken up the other day he didn’t joke. “I missed you.”  
  
Dean’s face softens. “I remember everything. Real and in my head. It was pretty bad, huh?”  
  
Sam’s smile leaves, making Dean curse himself for doing that. “Yeah. It was… it was bad.”  
  
Dean frowns now. “You okay?”  
  
Sam looks down at the sheets, picking at them. “Not really.”  
  
“Talk to me Sammy. I miss a lot in… how long has it been?”  
  
“Four days.”  
  
Dean lets out a whistle. “I miss a lot in four days when I’m not coherent.”  
  
Sam doesn’t look up. “It was my fault.”  
  
Dean scowls. “Sam.” His voice is harsher than he intended.  
  
Sam grimaces.  
  
“There will be no blame placing on anything or anyone but the werewolf.” His voice is softer.  
  
“But I shot you.”  
  
“Not your fault. Close range sent it through the werewolf. You kept me from being even more shredded. And unrecoverable.” When Sam doesn’t look up, Dean’s fist shoots out to punch his shoulder. He groans in pain as Sam lets out a “Hey!”  
  
Sam forgets his irritation when Dean groans. “Geeze, man. Don’t move your arm. You’re still healing.”  
  
Dean growls. “I’m gonna hate this.”  
  
Sam grins. “Probably.”  
  
He feels suddenly tired, letting his head fall back to the pillow. “I hate being tired all the time.”  
  
Sam lets his head fall on the pillow too. “You’re healing. Relax. Let me be your shield for once. You’ll be back to normal soon.”  
  
“Mmmm. In the meantime, you need to actually eat something.” He smiles a little though his eyes are closed.  
  
Sam frowns at him. “How’d you…?”  
  
“I know you, kid.”  
  
“I’m not a kid.”  
  
“You’ll always be my kid brother, Sam.” When he feels Sam’s frown, he amends that. “In the sense that I’ll always need to care for you.”  
  
Sam lets what he was going to say go in favor of something else. “Hey, Dean?”  
  
“Hmm?” He’s already mostly asleep.  
  
Sam smiles softly, rubbing his brother’s shoulder before letting his eyes close too. “Never mind.” His fingers trail down his brother’s arm as he settles into his side of the bed. After the four days he’s had, he has some rest to catch up on too. Then he’ll eat.

***

Sam shares the bed with Dean just like they did when they were kids. Dean doesn’t complain. Sam hogs the covers, snores on occasion, drools when he’s really out of it, and is sometimes too hot to lay close to. But Dean does anyway without complaint. Mostly. Sam knows he doesn’t mean the teasing anyway. He’s even started to use Sam’s snores to fall asleep and misses him when he wakes up to find Sam already gone. It’ worries him, these changes. He knows what’s going on. Knew even in his sickened state. Something’s changed. But he doesn’t know exactly what. But he’s not sure if it’s a good or bad thing. He doesn’t dwell on it. Just enjoys the break from hunting and spending time with his brother that has to do with them, not the job. He realizes Sam is different around him too.  
  
Two days after he woke up he insists on getting out of bed. Along with cleaning his wounds himself. He sits on Bobby’s couch mostly, lounging with Sam and talking to him and Bobby about the days during his sickness. He finds out Sam had to kill the werewolf’s mate when it hunted them for revenge. That’s what the blood on his blue shirt was from. Dean’s favorite blue shirt. And why he sounded tired.  
  
“I should kill you for handling that thing by yourself.”  
  
“Uh, Dean, in case you’ve forgotten, you were pretty out of it. I don’t think you would’ve been much help.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes. “You could have called Bobby sooner.”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes back. “Anyway, it was just after I stopped because of your fever. I was glad you stayed asleep during all the moving I did to you. Whenever you were awake you wouldn’t be able to keep from letting me know you were hurting. It made things a lot harder.”  
  
“So I let you know, huh?”  
  
Sam chuckles. “Yeah. It was almost a relief to actually know you were hurting unlike when you try to hide it from me. It let me know when to give you more pills.”  
  
Dean shrugs. “I’ve never had pain this bad before either. Except for the hellhounds.” He shudders.  
  
Sam’s face crumbles for a second before smoothing.  
  
Dean still notices, feeling a little guilty for his comment. “Sam, I’m fine now. It’s okay.”  
  
Sam nods, not very reassuring but he continues with his story. “Anyway, a while after I got you settled, I started hearing things outside the motel. I went to investigate. If it turned out to be too much trouble I would have gotten you back into the car and left. I wasn’t about to risk anything causing more trouble for you.”  
  
“The werewolf really tracked you that far?” Dean asks incredulously.  
  
Sam snorts. “Surprised me. Leapt out at me when I went around the back of the motel. Didn’t have silver bullets in my gun. Didn’t even think that’s what it’d be. Didn’t know there were two of them.”  
  
Dean sighs. “Yeah, I don’t know how I didn’t see anything to tell us that.”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. “Don’t even start. I didn’t see anything that led me to believe the thing had a mate either. And I’m the smarter one.” He smirks.  
  
Dean glares. “Continue with the story, bitch.”  
  
Sam grins. “Jerk. Anyway, it got me good on the shoulder as I was getting back to the room. That’s the blood you saw on my shirt,” he says, nodding to Dean.  
  
Dean frowns. “You’re hurt?”  
  
His younger brother looks almost guilty. “S’why I had to call Bobby. My stitches would rip if I carried your heavy ass.”  
  
Dean chuckles, even as he reaches over to touch where Sam’s hand is absently running over his shoulder. “It healed?”  
  
“Mostly.”  
  
He nods. “Good.”  
  
Sam snorts. “So anyway, I had to search for the silver bullets while the thing was attacking the door. Found them, and climbed out the window in the bathroom to go around and shoot it. But it must have heard me. Jumped me as I was coming around the corner. Tackled me, making me lose the gun. I kicked it off, grabbed the gun, turned, and shot it.”  
  
“So just bruises from that, huh?”  
  
“It’s really killing you that you weren’t there, isn’t it?” Sam asks, amused.  
  
Dean glares. “Just making sure you’re okay when I couldn’t do my job.”  
  
Bobby chuckles. “Bull.”  
  
Dean pretends to not hear him. “So then you called Bobby.”  
  
“So then I called Bobby,” Sam confirms. And that’s the end of that.  
  
Four days after he woke up, eight days after the attack, the more shallow of the gashes on his chest are healing nicely. He starts to worry about scaring. There’s a web of marks for potential scars. It’ll be ugly, he’s sure. Two days later, the first stitches start coming out on their own. Eight days after he woke up he’s up and walking around more. Testing his limits. The infection is long gone.  
  
Ten days after, he looks at himself in the mirror after removing his bandages for the last time. The gashes are healed enough to be held by the stitches. The deep gashes are still healing. Still red and more puffy. The more shallow ones are just pink lines. He sighs. He looks like a little kid’s attempt at sewing. Like he has the chest of Frankenstein.  
  
“Not so attractive now, are you Dean?” he grumbles to his reflection.  
  
He keeps a shirt on at all times. Redirects Sam’s questions on how he’s healing. Tries to act normal when he knows now what feels different between them. It all goes back to that dream where he thought Sam was beautiful. His real thoughts. He still thinks so, but tries not to show it. And weirdly enough, it’s not because they’re brothers. It’s not like they’ve ever been normal. It’s because he’s damaged. And not just from this recent attack. Sam deserves better. He's always deserved better.  
  
He ignores the small advances Sam is starting to allow himself. A lingering touch here, a comment there. Little things. But they all tell Dean his brother feels the same way. That something about this crisis proved to be the breaking point to their walls in their subconscious minds that kept these feelings toeing the brotherly line. He keeps his own feelings to himself though it’s hard. Only when Sam’s asleep does he allow any weakness.  
  
It’s two weeks after he woke up from his ‘lost days’ as he’s come to calling them. He walks out to Bobby’s backyard to see a sight that, if he didn’t have his reasons, would have easily broken his resolve. It affects him in so many different ways, he can only freeze where he stands for a long time. He soaks in the image as he sorts through all of his emotions.  
  
Sam is washing his car, shirtless, water droplets running down his shoulders, his jeans hanging low on his hips, no sort of underwear in sight. The claw marks from the werewolf are just pink lines now, trailing almost delicately across his shoulder. They’ll probably be barely visible within the week. And if they don’t fade that much, they’ll still be better than the jagged lines across Dean’s chest.  
  
The first thought that strikes Dean is, ‘My God he’s beautiful’. The next is, ‘He’s taking care of my car’. The last is how dangerous it is to stick around when he’s turned on by his brother and touched emotionally that he’s taking care of his second most precious possession. Especially since he’s trying to be good and stay away.  
  
He’s only been standing there a few seconds, still trying to make himself leave when Sam seems to sense him. Letting loose an easy smile after turning around, Sam jerks his head towards the car, motioning for Dean to join him. Who is he to say no? “Hey.”  
  
Sam hoses down the side of the car he just finished cleaning. “Hey. You wanna help finish?”  
  
Dean chuckles. “I don’t know, Doctor. Do I have the all clear?”  
  
Sam grins at him. “You should be healed enough now. Besides, I think she misses you.”  
  
Dean raises an eyebrow. “She?”  
  
Sam looks shyly away, patting the roof as he starts washing the back window. “She’s important to me too Dean. A lot of memories. Our only real home. And your most precious possession.”  
  
Dean wants to correct him on that. He doesn’t. “I appreciate it,” he says instead.  
  
Sam shrugs. “She was looking neglected.”  
  
“How’s the inside?”  
  
Sam knows what he means. “I made sure to keep blood off the seats.” He looks up at Dean to grin.  
  
Dean has started on the front of the car. He pauses in his washing to make eye contact with Sam. “Thanks man.”  
  
Sam throws his sponge at Dean, hitting him in the shoulder. He laughs as Dean glares, shaking the water off his harm. “Getting soft there Dean.”  
  
Dean’s eyes narrow. He disappears down behind the hood of the Impala.  
  
Sam tenses, a grin spreading across his face as he starts moving around the car. “No need to prove anything bro. You’re still healing. Don’t strain yourself.” He doesn’t get an answer. After he’s circled the car, he looks around curiously. In confusion, he looks under the car. Still nothing. Good. He’d be mad if Dean irritated his chest.  
  
“Don’t worry.”  
  
Sam spins around, getting sprayed in the chest with the hose. “Dean!”  
  
Dean just smirks. “I’m not straining anything.”  
  
Sam grabs the bucket. Dean’s already running away as he throws it forward, holding it as the water flies out. His strength propels it far enough to still make it to Dean, soaking his shirt. He laughs.  
  
Dean huffs but smiles as he turns around. “Well that was refreshing at least.” He leans against the car.  
  
Sam smiles, glad to see his brother so relaxed. So normal after everything they’ve gone through in their lives. It’s almost surreal. “Well if you’re hot, take off your shirt. Black isn’t a good color for a day like today. Must be almost a hundred degrees.”  
  
Dean tenses, but waves it off. “It’s alright, I’m good.”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s wet now, you might as well. And since when do you ever give up a chance to take off your shirt?” he teases.  
  
Dean forces out a chuckle. “I’m fine. Don’t mind it being wet.”  
  
Sam frowns. “Dean.” He stands in front of him. “What’s wrong?”  
  
Dean crosses his arms over his chest, keeping the pressure light out of habit to protect it. “Nothing.”  
  
His brother tilts his head, face softening. “Dean, c’mon. Something’s bothering you, I can see it.”  
  
He only glares. “Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it.”  
  
Sam sighs. “Fine, but can I see your chest? I want to see how it’s healing.”  
  
Dean tenses again. “It’s fine. I can take care of my own injuries.”  
  
Realization dawns on Sam. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re hiding your chest. Why?”  
  
After all of the previous questions, this one just makes Dean snap. “Damnit, Sam! You wanna know why? Because it’s ugly, that’s why! It’s like freakin’ Frankenstein!”  
  
He can’t say anymore then because Sam grabs the neck of his shirt as he spins him, pulling his top half forward as his bottom half is pressed into the side of the Impala by Sam’s body. Sam towers over him. “Don’t _ever_ call yourself ugly again,” he growls out. Then he crashes his lips into Dean’s.


	4. Part 4

**Part 4**

Dean is stunned. It takes him a few seconds to start kissing back and when he does, it’s with a deep groan. His hands move up to tangle in Sam’s long hair, holding him close. And God Sam’s mouth is hot and wet and _damn_ he knows how to kiss. Their tongues tangle, fighting for dominance before Sam pulls back abruptly.  
  
“Bobby,” he breathes. His head falls back as Dean’s mouth latches onto his throat, giving him more access. He shivers as his brother hits a sensitive spot.  
  
“Gone for the rest of the day,” Dean answers, working his way down Sam’s neck. Tastes him, sucking and biting a bruise right where neck meets shoulder. Mine. “S’why I came out here for your company.”  
  
Sam’s hands grip Dean’s waist, grinding his own hips against them. He lets out a hiss when he feels Dean hard, so hard against him. He rolls every plane of his body onto Dean's, pressing into every muscle and dent and curve before sliding his thigh up between Dean’s legs, teasingly slow before jerking up hard against him.  
  
Dean hisses. “Sam.” His hands move down his brother’s chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples. And damn if Sam doesn’t make the most beautiful sounds. His hands move lower, over ribs, cut abs, fingers digging into Sam’s hip bones when they get there. He pulls Sam against him, unable to move away from the car. He decides he likes Sam’s weight on him.  
  
Sam’s mouth seeks out Dean’s again. He tastes him. Can’t get enough. He bites Dean’s lower lip, pulling on it gently at first, but harder as he feels his brother’s breath hitch. He goes back to exploring his mouth as he maneuvers his hands behind Dean, spreading his fingers over his back. Gripping him and holding tight. “Dean. I want…”  
  
“What do you want, Sammy?”  
  
“God, I wanna touch you.” His hands start pushing up Dean’s shirt. He stops when Dean tenses, touching his forehead to his older brother’s. “Dean,” he breathes, “don’t be afraid of me.”  
  
“I’m not,” Dean murmurs back. He opens his eyes, seeing Sam doing the same. “I just feel… damaged. And you’re perfect.” His mouth quirks up into a half grin.  
  
Sam’s eyes spark with something. “No. I’m not perfect.” Before Dean can say anything, he takes one of his hands, sliding it up his back. He presses his brother’s fingers into the middle, right over his spine, moving it up then back down. “Feel that?”  
  
Dean does, eyes closing against the memory that surges back when his fingers move over the rough skin of the scar. Sam falling to his knees. Running to him. Clinging to him as he just kept getting farther and farther away. He died in his arms. “How did I not see this earlier?” It sure feels noticeable. Raised skin as bad as his chest.  
  
Sam smiles sadly. Knowingly. “Your eyes avoid it. I’ve noticed that.” He chuckles when Dean looks at him incredulously. Then his eyes are soft again. “You see it as a failure. Do you know what I see it as?” As Dean’s fingers move over the scar, his breath hitches. It takes him a few seconds to continue. “I see it as a reminder that at least there was a point in time where my brother would go to Hell just to bring me back to life.”  
  
“Forever Sam. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”  
  
Sam smiles. “There were times I wasn’t sure. Like when I was all hopped up on demon blood.”  
  
Dean scowls. “No matter what you do Sam, I will always love you. I’d do whatever it takes to-”  
  
“Say that again.”  
  
Dean blinks up at him. “What?”  
  
Sam’s eyes are alight again. With ferocity, Dean decides. “Say that again. That last part.”  
  
He gets it. He takes Sam’s face in his hands, touching his lips gently against Sam’s. “I love you,” he says.  
  
The tenderness Dean uses surprises Sam. Desire spreads through him and they’re back to desperation again. Pressing close and pulling to get even closer. Sam’s hands move back to the hem of Dean’s shirt. “I want to see you Dean. All of you.”  
  
“Okay Sam. Okay.” He pulls back, letting Sam pull his shirt over his head. He knows Sam loves him. He knows his brother isn’t shallow. He does. But he still closes his eyes as his brother’s move down. But it’s his ears that pick up Sam’s reaction.  
  
“My God.”  
  
His eyes squeeze shut, teeth clenching.  
  
“You took this for me. Again. After all the other times.”  
  
The sound of awe in his brother’s voice makes his eyes snap open. He watches in his own awe as Sam braces his hands on the car behind him and leans down to touch his mouth to the top line of the scars. He shivers at the feeling of Sam’s lips on his more sensitive skin. Who knew these could be associated with anything good? “I’d do it again, little brother,” he breathes.  
  
“Knowing how much it hurts. The hellhounds. Hell. All the other times you’ve taken something for me. You keep doing it.” Sam’s moving lower now. Kissing every line on his brother’s stomach as if healing them. “You see this as ugly,” he murmurs as he goes. “I see it as yet another stupid move to save my life.” The love in his voice cancels out any bite the word ‘stupid’ added.  
  
Dean’s breathing picks up with the added emotion. “Okay Sam. Not ugly. Proof that I love you.”  
  
Sam’s eyes meet his then, dark with the intensity in them. Pupils dilated with desire. His hands rest on Dean’s belt buckle as he settles on his knees. “Can I?”  
  
Dean nods. “God yeah.”  
  
Sam has the belt undone in record time. He undoes the jeans, fingers purposefully running over his brother’s cock.  
  
Dean’s head falls back. “Sam. No teasing.”  
  
He chuckles. “You’re no fun.” But he moves faster, pulling his brother’s jeans down and off, smiling at the rare sight of bare feet. He hadn’t even noticed Dean had come out here without his boots. His eyes look back up at Dean as he goes for the boxers, wasting no time in going for the prize.  
  
“Holy shit, Sammy!” Deans hands try to find purchase on the car as Sam takes him in, eventually giving up to grip his shoulders instead. “God!”  
  
Sam’s eyes look up at him, a grin easily seen in them though his face isn’t showing it. He just keeps moving, slowly at first while he gets used to the feel of the weight in his mouth, then faster as he goes on. He’s never done this before. But he’s a fast learner.  
  
“Sam,” Dean whispers, chokes. A whimper is working its way up, and when Sam takes him back into his throat, it comes out between his teeth more like a groan to his relief. “God, yeah.”  
  
His lips moving up and down Dean’s cock is driving Sam’s own body crazy. He moans deeply as he reaches down to touch himself through his jeans, unable to do more while his other hand is anchoring Dean to the impala.  
  
Dean jerks and pants above him, eyes barely open as they stay fixed on Sam’s face. “Sammy.” When he feels himself start to get a little too close, he grits his teeth as his hands slide into Sam’s hair. He groans as Sam goes for one more long, hard suck before allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.  
  
They’re going at each other’s mouths again. A mix of teeth, tongues, and hotwantneednow that drives them on. Dean’s hands grip Sam’s hair, pulling on it to bend him back, going for his neck. Sam gasps at the sensation, his brother’s name like a prayer on his lips.  
  
“My turn now, Sammy.” His breath is hot on Sam’s neck.  
  
Before Sam can comprehend what that means, he’s spun around and shoved back onto the hood of the Impala. His back touches the heated metal, thankfully cooled some from the water still but he arches from the slight sting anyway. He cries out when his brother starts grinding against him again. “Shit!” His legs automatically come up to wrap around Dean’s waist, pulling him up against him as he reaches up to pull his lips down.  
  
Dean presses his weight down on Sam, paying no heed to his chest anymore. It doesn’t hurt that much. It doesn’t matter. Only this matters. Just him and Sam. What it’s always been. Right now though, things are uneven. Though the sensation of Sam’s jeans against him drives him crazy, his hands go to the button. “Tell me to stop Sam and I will.”  
  
Sam’s the one panting now, spread on the hood of the Impala, perfectly okay with what’s happening. “No. Don’t stop Dean. Don’t you dare stop.” He lifts his hips for his brother as his jeans are pulled down, hissing as they go over his cock.  
  
Dean takes a second to appreciate his brother. If he thought he was hard before, seeing his Sam spread out on the hood of his car makes him harder than he ever has been in his life. And if that isn’t wrong, he doesn’t know what is. But, “Damn.” His brother is, “Beautiful.”  
  
A flush spreads up Sam’s neck, eyes looking away in slight embarrassment. He gets a little insecure about the image he must be projecting, sprawled out naked like this. But before he can think about that, Dean is back between his legs, leaning down to touch his lips to his stomach. His breathing hitches. “Dean.” It takes all his self-control to not let his head fall back.  
  
Dean doesn’t look up until he’s farther down, too busy paying attention to the flutter of muscles beneath the soft skin of his younger brother’s stomach. His eyes look up to connect to Sam’s though when he gets down to his destination. Keeping their eyes locked, he moves down to swipe his tongue from base to head, gathering the precome from the tip.  
  
“Dean. God, just… please.”  
  
It’s with a self-satisfied smirk that he goes down to swallow as much of Sam as he can manage.  
  
Sam can’t keep himself up anymore, arms giving out as his head falls back to rest against the windshield of the car when Dean takes him almost all the way in. A long list of expletives leaves his mouth.  
  
Dean pulls off, amusement shining in his eyes. “Damn, Sammy. That’s quite a mouth you have on you.”  
  
He groans. “Shut up and suck me.”  
  
Dean chuckles before doing just that.  
  
Sam lets out a throaty groan, mouth falling open as his eyes squeeze shut. He gasps as Dean moves up and down his length, slowly working deeper and deeper each time. “Dean… Dean come here,” he finally gasps out.  
  
One more long suck before he lets go, moving up to lean over the hood of the car to rest on his elbows on either side of Sam’s shoulders. He leans down to kiss him, tongue mapping out his mouth as he starts grinding down against his Sam’s hips, their cocks lined up together. He groans into his mouth as Sam’s hands come up to slide through his hair, gently fisting in the short strands and turning his head to control the kiss.  
  
Sam pulls back, head falling back to rest against the car again as he looks up at his brother. “Dean.” He bucks up against him a few times, looking into his eyes. “Please.”  
  
Dean blinks. Without words, his eyes ask the question. _You sure?_  
  
Sam nods. _Yes._ He bites his lip. _Please._  
  
A soft kiss. _Okay, Sam. Okay._ There’s nothing around them that will make this any easier. Spit it is, Dean decides. But for the first time… He looks down at Sam.  
  
Just like always, his little brother knows exactly what he’s thinking. “Don’t care Dean. Want it. Please.”  
  
He’s never been too good at denying his brother anything. “You tell me, Sam. Tell me if it’s too much.”  
  
Sam nods frantically. “Please. Just…” He lets out a choked sound when Dean sucks his own fingers into his mouth, doing what he can to get as much spit as possible on them before it moves down and starts circling his entrance.  
  
Dean chuckles, lowering himself down to a crouch and leaning forward to rest his chin on Sam’s hip. “What do you want, Sammy? Hmmm?” He teasingly presses against the opening, but waits for Sam to say it. He runs his teeth over his hip. “You gotta say it, Sammy.”  
  
“God, Dean! Just fuck me!”  
  
Maybe it’s the words. Maybe it’s just the desperation Sam so openly shows. Either way, Dean’s done playing. Done holding back. He gives in. Slides his finger in, his own groan mixing with Sam’s. “You good?” he pants, already overwhelmed with just the feeling of Sam opening to him but not wanting to go too quick. He’s almost positive this is a first for both of them.  
  
“Perfect,” Sam groans, hips moving slightly. “More. C’mon.”  
  
“So bossy,” Dean grumbles, nipping at his thigh and making him groan again. He makes his new goal in life to wring as many sounds like that out of his brother as he can. One finger eventually becomes two, more spit added as he goes. His eyes still have not left his brother’s body, drinking in the beautiful sight of him writhing on the hood of the Impala. But he’s yet to find where…  
  
Sam lets out a sharp cry, body bowing off the hood and hands scraping for a hold at the sparks that shoot through him. He never knew it could be likes this. Never knew it would be so intense. He doesn’t know whether it’s his own body, or whether it’s because it’s Dean. “God, right there!”  
  
Dean’s ‘Ah ha!’ dies in his throat as he watches the beauty that is his brother falling apart for him. “God damn,” he murmurs. “So sensitive.” He leans forward to press a kiss to his brother’s hip bone when he settles. "Knew you'd be perfect for me."  
  
Two fingers have just become three when Sam breaks. “Dean. Need you. Now. Please.” His hand reaches down to land on his brother’s head, snaking back to grip the back of his neck and pull him up when he moves. He wraps his legs around his brother’s waist as Dean positions him at the end of the Impala.  
  
Dean leans over Sam, kissing him softly before he does his best to spit as much as he can into his hand before stroking himself. “You sure? Not sure I can go back after this.”  
  
Sam’s blinding smile is answer enough. “Not going back. Ever.”  
  
He doesn’t need to ask again. He presses himself to Sam's entrance and pushes inside, slowly. “Oh shit…” His brother opens up for him, body letting him in like it was made for him. And now, he’s wondering if it was. “Sam.” He tries to hold himself still as Sam gets used to the initial feeling, but he’s shaking. “So damn tight.” He lets his head fall to touch his forehead to his brother’s. “Tell me.”  
  
Sam gasps at the feeling of his brother pushing inside him. There’s only a little pain, easy to breathe through and ignore. Even with Dean’s impressive size and no lube, his brother didn’t slack on prep. Besides, they've had much worse. “Move,” he gasps, leaning up to nip Dean’s shoulder when his brother pulls back from where their heads were touching. “C’mon. Fuck me.”  
  
“Not this time, Sammy.” He pulls out a little, pushing in farther with his next thrust, working his way to bottoming out rather than doing it all at once. “Our first time is going to be special.” He makes eye contact the next time he pushes in, smiling at Sam’s gasp. “Tease me for that and I’ll withhold a repeat performance,” he chuckles, kissing Sam as he starts to set a steady rhythm.  
  
Sam’s head falls back against the car when Dean breaks the kiss, hands digging into his brother’s back. “N-not teasing,” he grunts. The full feeling when his brother bottoms out, it’s almost too much. And then he’s letting out that sharp sound again at the next thrust, practically trying to claw his way into Dean. “Oh god, Dean there!”  
  
Dean chuckles, finally letting himself go faster. “Perfect.” And then he’s exploiting that spot with a vengeance.  
  
Finding out Sam is loud, like really loud, is one of the best things that’s happened to him lately. Besides the fact that this is actually happening. He does everything he can to pull sound after sound out of Sam, loving the fact that it’s him doing it. Making Sam fall apart so thoroughly. It’s a good thing Bobby is gone.  
  
“Dean. So close. Gonna…”  
  
“Come for me, Sam. C’mon, Sammy. Wanna hear you lose it.”  
  
“C-can’t…,” he moves his hand down to touch himself.  
  
Dean grabs his wrist, pinning it to the hood of the car. “Just likes this,” he growls. “Just from me.”  
  
Maybe it’s the suggestion. Maybe it’s the commanding tone of Dean’s voice. Whatever it is, it hits the right button at the right time. A deep shiver runs through Sam, his back arching as his hand that’s still on Dean’s shoulder digs in. He teeters on that edge for just a second.  
  
Dean leans down to growl in Sam’s ear. “Come.” He bites down in just the right spot he knows will send shivers down Sam’s spine.  
  
And that’s it. That’s all anybody ever wrote. Sam shudders, his release overtaking him with a vengeance. A cry that can barely even be considered Dean’s name rips from him, almost silent at the beginning as it catches in his throat.  
  
Dean follows right after, not even having the desire to hold back after watching Sam fall apart beneath him. Because of him. He shudders through his own release, choked sounds that are almost a mix between shock and pleasure break from his throat. Like he couldn’t believe how good it felt.  
  
Sam can agree with that sentiment. His arms fall heavily around Dean’s shoulders, pulling him down so they’re pressed chest to chest. He scrapes his teeth over the freckled skin of Dean’s shoulder as he gasps for air. “Love you too,” he pants.  
  
Dean chuckles, burying his face in Sam’s neck. He doesn’t ever remember feeling so happy. He eventually pulls out, groaning at the tiny whimper Sam can’t keep in. “You alright?”  
  
Sam sighs, falling limp into the hood of the Impala when his brother steps away from him. “Perfect.”  
  
Dean chuckles, letting his eyes roam over Sam appreciatively. He’s going to like being able to do that all the time. “You wanna get dressed?”  
  
Sam blushes, pushing himself up.  
  
Dean grins, stepping forward to wrap a hand around the back of Sam’s neck. “No need to be embarrassed.” He kisses him, winking when he pulls back. “I’m definitely not complaining. I just have no idea when Bobby will be back.”  
  
Sam huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. Might want to get dressed.”  
  
They’re done wiping themselves off with the old shirts in the back seat of the Impala and are pulling on their jeans when Dean asks, teasingly, “So… you’re clean right?”  
  
Sam chuckles. “Wouldn’t have let you do that if I wasn’t. You taught me well.” He chuckles. “You?”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes like the answer is obvious. “I wouldn’t have done that if I wasn’t, Sammy. Wouldn’t do that to you.”  
  
Sam reaches out to run his fingers down his arm and pulls him closer by his wrist. “I know.” He kisses him. “Wow. I’ll never get tired of that.”  
  
Dean kisses him again, lazily and lovingly. When they finally separate, Dean scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tick, before talking. “You know… you were wrong before.”  
  
Sam tilts his head. “About what?” His fingers move over the lines on his brother’s chest. Tracing them almost reverently. Strange, how none of them hit the tattoo.  
  
Dean has to collect his thoughts again before he can answer. “The Impala isn’t my most precious possession. She’s second.”  
  
Sam blinks. “To what?”  
  
Dean grins crookedly, looking down nervously like a teenage girl. “You.”  
  
Sam’s breath catches and he pulls Dean against him, tongue staking claim to every inch of Dean’s mouth. “God,” he gets out in between, “what did I do to get to see this side of you?”  
  
Dean feels something loosen in his chest, having nothing to do with the damage to it. “You loved me,” he chokes out. “It just took me a fever and a bad acid trip to realize how much.” He runs his fingers through Sam’s hair. Maybe he doesn’t need a haircut.  
  
Sam laughs, brighter than Dean has heard in a long time. “You always were slow on the uptake.” He smiles brightly, dimples and all.  
  
Dean rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Sam.” He sits on the front fender, pulling Sam between his legs and kisses him like he has all the time in the world.  
  
Bobby finds them like that minutes later, turning back inside without a word. Though, he does roll his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> https://ko-fi.com/writerforthem
> 
> Support for real life is appreciated.


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